This one you have met—” he patted the man next to him on the shoulder “—my youngest brother Caelan.” Duncan nodded as Iain continued, “He has only just recently returned from his fostering with the MacLeans.”
Point taken—an established relationship with the powerful MacLean clan of the isles.
Duncan watched Caelan and realized he was much too young to be husband or lover to the woman he’d met…and he was gone when the child was conceived, if Duncan knew anything about calculations. The little girl was nigh on five which meant she could not be his. Not certain why this was important to him, Duncan turned to the man seated next to him as the laird continued the introductions.
“That is my brother Padruig and his betrothed next to him, Iseabail of the MacKendimens.”
The MacKendimens were a small, but not inconsequential clan near Dalmally, not far from Lairig Dubh. Another connection made and acknowledged. Duncan the Stout would have been proud of Iain’s neat handling of showing their strength without ever raising a weapon. With a nod to both of them, Duncan waited for the last brother to be introduced.
“And that is Graem,” Iain began, with a tilt of his head at the last brother who was seated opposite of Hamish, “who has been invited by the Bishop of Dunkeld to take up studies under his tutelage.”
And that was the final connection—to one of the most powerful and important bishops in Scotland, giving the clan a link to the Church. The sons of Duncan the Stout were well-established and connected to important clans, big and small, throughout Scotland. And the clan was one of the oldest families in the land, tracing their heritage back to the Celtic lords of Atholl. Their heraldry and position had been announced more effectively than calling the roll of ancestors. Duncan admired the efficiency with which Iain had established their position.
Iain may only have been laird for just over two years, but he was firmly in command and knew his mind. From the expressions of the others seated at the table, they were proud of him as well and would back his efforts and decisions.
Duncan recognized a challenge made and he could feel the blood in his veins begin to pulse in anticipation of a good fight. He relished nothing more than a worthy adversary across the negotiating table and now knew that the next few weeks would test his abilities on every front.
“We will begin on the morrow, if that suits you, Duncan?” Iain asked.
“Aye, ‘tis fine.” Duncan was anxious to get into the thick of battle.
“My steward will see to your comfort,” he said. An older man came forward and stood at Iain’s side. “If there is anything you need, Struan will see to it.” Struan bowed and, after asking about their preferences for rooming, left to make the arrangements.
The rest of the meal passed pleasurably, but Duncan discovered he did not even remember what he ate or drank, though the latter was sparsely done. He wanted and needed time to make his final review of the possibilities and their offer before night fell. He could not wait for the thrill of the process. And like a child with a wrapped gift sitting before him, Duncan found that he could not wait for the day to be over and the negotiations to begin.
Duncan would look back, at some time later, and laugh over his misbegotten anticipation and excitement of what was to come. And five days later, in the middle of a heated discussion, and for the first time in all the treaties he’d negotiated, Duncan the Peacemaker lost his temper.
Chapter Three
“You cannot be serious,” Duncan shouted as his fists pounded on the table, scattering documents and scrolls in the wake. “You already agreed with that provision nearly two days ago!”
He sensed his control slipping and could not pull himself back. Never had he felt as though the very ground beneath him lay coated with oil and his feet could find no purchase. Hamish glared at him…again. The Robertsons’s chief negotiator glared again. Even the laird, who usually stood by silently and watched the proceedings, glared. The thing that Duncan did not understand was what had sent him down such a course that resulted in his anger.
“I was under the impression, sir, that all matters were still negotiable until the laird signs the final treaty. Is that no longer the way we are proceeding?” Symon asked, turning to Iain, again, for confirmation.
Duncan leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. He gathered and straightened the documents and scrolls he’d scattered and decided that what he needed most was a short time away from Symon before his control snapped completely, for he feared Symon’s neck would be the next thing in the room to snap. Having made the decision, he pushed back from the table, bowed in Iain’s direction and walked to the door.
“The weather has cleared and I feel that a short break now might clear my head. With your permission, Iain?”
Without waiting for permission, Duncan pulled open the door, followed the corridor and then the steps down to the lower floor and made his way to the stables. He had spoken the truth, for the last four days had been one torrential rainstorm, complete with winds and lightning that split the sky and rumbled over Dunalastair with fierce power. This morn had dawned clear and crisp as though the storm had raged only in their imaginations. And mayhap it had?
He reached the stables and his horse greeted him with the same snorts and stamping he’d just offered to Symon, telling Duncan that they both needed a good run to burn off some of the tension that built within them. Readying the horse himself, it was only a short time before they both raced toward the keep’s gate and out through the village. Crossing the bridge, Duncan let the horse have his head for a short time. Using muscles that had been too long unused, Duncan brought the mount under control and laughed as the exertion revived his body and his spirits. A short time and distance later, he turned around and headed back to the keep.
As he rode, he tumbled this morn’s work over and over in his head, searching for the problem. There had been significant progress and then he felt as though they hit a stone wall. Each word, each provision was contested. Reviewing it brought him no clarity and he continued to assess the strengths and weaknesses in his offer. When next he looked up, he was sitting on the path that led to the woman’s cottage without any knowledge of how he’d gotten there.
He knew he should leave and return to his duties and to the keep where others waited on his return.
He knew he should avoid her for she was like every other distraction that pulled him from his task.
He knew there was nothing remarkable about her, yet something drew him to her and something enticed him to discover more about her.
Duncan shook his head at such nonsensical thoughts. He must be more tired than he thought if he lost his concentration so easily now. Mayhap if he learned her name, her appeal would lessen? ‘Twas a chance that it was the mystery of her that made her attractive to him? He’d nearly talked himself out of staying to speak with her when the door to the cottage opened and the woman came out.
Once more struck by the way she looked from a distance and how differently she appeared up close, he watched as her daughter followed a few moments later and skipped along in her mother’s shadow, through a gate and into a garden next to the croft. Their soft and completely feminine laughter floated to him where he sat, still on his horse, in the shadows of the tree-lined path.
He’d watched and listened to Connor’s wife, Jocelyn, as she played and frolicked with her son and, more recently, her daughter and his heart did the same thing now as then. He felt as though a fist
